Bloody Politics
by skag trendy
Summary: Sam wouldn't wake up, that was bad enough. But when the doctor delivered his verdict, both Winchesters were stunned. Sometimes, it seems, the enemy can be your friend. Pre-pilot. Sam 16, Dean 20. Warning: language & suggested rape - not the boys!
1. Chapter 1

**Bloody Politics**

**Sam wouldn't wake up, that was bad enough.**

**But when the doctor delivered his verdict, both Winchesters were stunned.**

**Sometimes, it seems, the enemy can be your friend.**

**Warning: Mention of rape (not involving the Winchesters). **

**AU in the sense that Sam comes away from the story a little differently to canon.**

**Life threatening illness.**

**Sick, injured Sam. **

**Worried Dean and John.**

**Pre-pilot.**

**Sam 16, Dean 20.**

**Usual disclaimers, including any bullshit medical stuff: **

**If any of its wrong please remember that it's just a story, and get over it, eh?**

**Chapter 1**

"Well, whadya know?" John announced, shining his flashlight on a tiny headstone. "For a politician, it's a bit of a letdown, huh Dean?"

Dean looked over at his father and smirked when he saw the grave.

"Only one I've ever seen whose ego could fit in something that small," he hefted his shovel meaningfully. "This'll teach the sick bastard. No wonder his wife refused a proper state funeral."

"Uh, guys?" Sam suddenly called out, eyes wide, and backing slowly away from a much larger mausoleum behind them. "I think he heard you!"

The spirit of John. H. Williamson flickered overhead, launched himself off the mausoleum and roared angrily, just as John dug in with his shovel.

Williamson swooped in, ghostly hands curled into claws, ready to take John's face off, but Sam swiped at it with a tyre iron, and the damn thing just backed off to a safe distance.

It obviously had something up its ghostly sleeve, because it appeared to be grinning sneakily at the small family.

And Williamson had been just as sneaky in life as he was proving in death…

* * *

><p>Jenna Foreman, eighteen, sweet, innocent and fresh out of college had landed the job as Senator Williamson's secretary.<p>

Little did she know, this wonderful opportunity would drastically screw up her life.

After numerous attempts to seduce her were flatly but politely turned down, not only did her new boss drug her coffee so he could have sex with her across his desk, but he filmed it for his own private pleasure, and stupidly neglected to wear a condom.

The result? He knocked her up.

A young girl, who had swore blind she was a virgin, just waiting for the right man to come along, was now branded a slut and a whore by her fellow townsfolk.

The poor kid killed herself a couple months later.

But it wasn't until Williamson himself was killed in car accident, that his transgressions came to light.

His wife, Mira, a grieving, soft-hearted, middle-aged beauty, had been clearing out his office when she stumbled upon a secret compartment in his safe.

Needless to say, she was devastated.

Infused with a sense of honour her husband had clearly lacked, Mrs Williamson kept the existence of the film footage from the press until she'd informed the girl's parents in person, allowing them to decide what they wanted to do with it.

Not surprisingly, Jenna's parents hit out at the public; spoke of Jenna's rape, doomed pregnancy, and ultimate despair when she was condemned by respectable society, and the whole town fell into a dark, guilt ridden silence.

But now the story was in the public domain, John Williamson's spirit wreaked havoc on his wife, out of some kind of misguided vengeance for posthumously ruining his reputation.

The tape was eventually destroyed, but the bastard kept on coming back, becoming increasingly more aggressive.

After a particularly vicious assault, exactly one year after his death, that left her hospitalised from a nasty shove down the stairs, Mira Williamson wisely decided to call in the experts.

Many years before, when she was just a little girl, her father had sought advice from someone named Samuel Campbell. She vaguely remembered giggling at the name, but falling silent with awe when the guy in question loomed over her.

Mr Campbell had seemed permanently angry about something, and that balding head made his eyes look hard and fierce.

But, the important thing she remembered most was that after Mr Campbell had done something weird in their house, involving chanting some funny sounding words, and punching holes in the walls, the scary shadow that had haunted her bedroom every night for three years was suddenly gone.

After the last attack by her dead husband, Mira had looked high and low for Campbell and came up with nothing. Man had just seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet. But her research lead to a small, innocuous road house, run by a good ol'country gal with a husky voice who, instead, gave her the number for one John Winchester.

When he showed up two days later, it was with the added bonus of his sexy but cheeky twenty year old son, Dean, who insisted on flirting with her outrageously, and making her feel naughty and young again.

And then there was the adorable, dewy-eyed, youngest son, Sam.

Sweet sixteen, his whole life ahead of him, and tainted by a deep, haunting sadness that somehow reminded her a little of Mr Campbell from years before.

* * *

><p>And that was how the Winchesters found themselves facing off against a ghostly pervert in a graveyard, and wondering what the hell they'd done to deserve it.<p>

Dean already had a nice shiner forming from having his face damn near punched through Williamson's pathetic headstone. John had several deep scratches up his arms and face from the ghost's claw-like nails.

Sam appeared to be the only one without injury, but that was about to change.

The ghost hovered menacingly above them.

It came out of nowhere; a strange wind whipping up around the Winchesters, driving leaves and dirt hard into their faces. Heads bent against the violent storm, Dean and John quickly got the top layer of soil off, and dug down further.

Sam wielded the shotgun expertly, the loud _boom_ echoing round the graveyard. The ghost howled its' protest, and dissipated in a burst of rock salt.

John and Dean dug deeper, faster, and harder, ignoring the sound of Sam's shotgun going off once again and Williamson's haunting screams of rage.

Just in time, as it turned out, for John to crowbar the lid off the coffin, and make with the salt and lighter fluid.

Then it all went to hell for Sam.

Just before John touched the Zippo to the corpse, Sam was soaring through the air, arms flailing comically, until he met with the business end of a solid granite angel.

It didn't knock him out, but it was a close call.

Definitely not an act of God.

He tentatively got to his feet and blinked slowly. Leaving the shotgun abandoned on the ground, he stumbled forward, running a quick internal scan.

Head aching, vision a little skewed; nothing unusual about that after a wallop to the noggin. Reaching up, his fingers brushed a lump swelling up on the side of his head, and came away coated in a damp stickiness, which, after he squinted at it a few times, turned out to be blood.

_Oh, perfect._

But other than that, something felt… _off_.

Something had felt off for weeks, in fact, but now the general _offness_ had been ramped up a few more degrees.

And his family were completely clueless about it.

It hadn't been intentional, keeping it a secret, but Sam and John hadn't been getting along too well of late. This was mostly down to Sam's sudden attacks of clumsiness, which John attributed to poor attention and lack of discipline. So Sam's training became longer and more arduous.

This didn't help rid Sam of his clumsiness; in fact, it did just the opposite.

It made things lots, lots worse.

The headaches became more intense, making him more aggressive and argumentative; the bouts of double vision became more frequent and scared the shit out of him.

And the more he screwed up, the angrier John became, the louder the arguments, and the more pissed off it made Dean for being caught like a piggy in the middle, trying to keep the peace.

Acknowledging that this had to reach some sort of conclusion had been hard, but what was even harder? The one time Sam had tried to tell his family that there was something wrong; he'd been interrupted before he could even get halfway through the sentence.

And, God forgive him for thinking it, but maybe they didn't really care all that much after all, because "Uh, guys, I've not been feeling…" didn't really require a genius level IQ to finish off with "…well, and I think I need to see a doctor."

He knew he was being unfair to them. Dean was, as always, excited by the new hunt, and John was just being John. But it _hurt_ that they wouldn't even listen.

And now it was two weeks on, his symptoms were getting worse, and Sam felt caught between a rock and a hard place.

He was afraid to tell them for fear it would confirm his worst suspicions, that Dad and Dean didn't actually give a shit.

He was afraid _not _to tell them, for fear that this was something serious and if he didn't get checked out soon, it might well be too late.

Sniffing back his tears, Sam spotted the flames from the salt and burn, all fuzzy and blurry around the edges, and walked towards it.

John and Dean hadn't even noticed Sam's unexpected flight with the angel, it seemed, because they were too busy congratulating each other on a job well done.

Sam inwardly shrugged. It wouldn't be the first time he'd felt left out of his own

family.

_It's not like they actually need me._

Instead, he stood silently by, waiting for their acknowledgement, which never came.

_When have they ever really needed me?_

It was a long trek back up the hill from the graveyard. Sam trundled along behind John, feeling very sorry for himself, while Dean tried to engage his little brother in conversation.

"So, what ya say to some pool and a few beers, huh, Sammy?" asked Dean, gently bumping shoulders with him. "I might even let you win this time."

Sam didn't even look at him. "No thanks. Got homework."

_You don't want me there, not really._

Dean's face fell. "Aw, c'mon. You can give it a rest for one night, huh? Come hang out with your awesome big brother!"

Sam sighed. "Look, I'm just too tired, ok?" he said, not unkindly. "Maybe another time."

_Just go get drunk and laid... the real important things in life, huh? After hunting, that is..._

"Fine," said Dean, in an instant sulk.

John, having overheard his sons, frowned deeply just as they got back to the cars.

"Sam, go with your brother," he barked out, unlocking his truck. "I got things I need to do, and I'd feel easier knowing you aren't at the motel all alone."

"But Dad," began Sam, balking at just the thought of sitting in a smoky bar room all night with drunken revellers, especially when he was feeling like crap.

"No arguments, Sam," said John, packing his weapons away in the truck. "Don't have time for your whining. Homework's irrelevant now the hunt's finished, anyhow. We'll be moving on tomorrow."

Sam honest to God felt like crying again.

"Fine," he whispered, morosely.

_Don't know why you don't just leave me behind._

"Where's the shotgun?" Dean spoke up, suddenly. "It's not in the weapons bag."

John's gaze immediately shot to his youngest, homing in on the kid's empty hands. The frown deepened into an angry scowl.

"Sam, where's the shotgun?" he growled, and slowly stalked towards him. "You had it last."

"Uh… uh…" Sam remembered having it before the salt and burn, using it against the ghost, but after he took a header into the angel gravestone it was all a bit of a blank.

Sam hung his head, ashamed.

_Shit. If Dad didn't hate me before, he sure does now._

"I think I must've dropped it," he whispered, tears threatening his composure once again. "I'm sorry, sir,"

_What the hell's wrong with me? Since when did I turn into such a pussy?_

"Godammit!" John spun around, and headed off back down to the graveyard. "Dean?" he ground out, trying to take control of his temper. "Take him to the bar, and don't bring him back before midnight!"

A traitorous tear slipped down Sam's face when he heard the angrily grumbled "I might be less likely to throttle him by then!"

He supposed he should have been grateful his Dad hadn't made him go search for it, or perhaps he just plain didn't trust Sam to do the job properly.

_And he's right._

Avoiding Dean's gaze, head throbbing incessantly, Sam headed to the Impala and climbed into the front passenger seat, closing the door quietly after himself.

Dean bit his lip and huffed out a breath.

"Oh boy," he muttered, ominously, just as he slid into the driver's side. He looked across at Sam. "Guess I shouldn't have asked, huh?"

No response. Just a pissy silence and nothing else.

Dean felt a little pissed himself, by now.

"Ya know, if you'd just kept your mouth shut until we got in the car, you could've been back at the motel all by your geekself for the rest of the night, and I could've been at the bar without your moody ass!"

Sam still said nothing to that, just slid down in his seat, the right side of his face pressed up against the passenger window.

Sleep was calling him and Sam decided to go with it, never mind that the bar was only a twenty minute drive away. It was either that or suffer Dean's growing animosity.

* * *

><p>Dean grumbled as he pulled up to the bar parking lot. Sam had been asleep the entire journey, and it was time for some fun.<p>

"Hey, runt!" he reached across the car and pushed at Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, wake up, or I'll leave you here."

Sam remained silent, and Dean was beginning to think he was faking it.

"Right!" he said, getting out from behind the wheel and marching round to the passenger side. "Let's see, huh?"

It was a joke Dean had played on his little brother many times before:

It begins with Sam sound asleep, wedged up against his door, while Dean tippytoes around to his side of the car, yanks open car door, little brother startles awake and sprawls out on the tarmac, swearing up a storm.

This time, however, the joke didn't pan out.

The second Dean opened the passenger door, he knew something was wrong.

Perhaps his subconscious warned him about the smear of blood on the window before his brain fully registered it was there, or maybe it was the way Sam remained silent as he began to fall from his seat, making no move to wake up and save himself.

Either way, Dean's heart was pounding in his chest when he deftly caught the kid up in his arms.

"Sam?" he gave him a gentle shake. "Sammy? C'mon, this ain't funny, dude."

He spotted the blood leaking from Sam's right nostril and frowned worriedly.

"Ok, kiddo, joke's definitely over," he warned, voice beginning to waver. "Time to wake up, Sammy."

Gently smoothing a hand over the kid's head, he came into contact with an egg-sized lump, buried underneath his little brother's shaggy hair. And more blood, dried and clotted by now, but enough to send Dean into a tail spin of blind panic.

"What the hell, Sam?" he demanded. "Wake up right now, Goddammit!"

When he continued to achieve a big, fat zero, he noticed something strange on Sam's neck. He gently turned the boy's head a little more to the side, and gasped in shock.

Winding its way out of Sam's ear, and soaking into his tee-shirt, was another steady trickle of blood. Fresh, this time.

"Oh shit!" Dean breathed, and immediately began gently, but quickly, stuffing Sam back into the passenger seat. "Ohshitshitshit!"

**_TBC._**

**_Assuming you guys are interested enough..._**


	2. Chapter 2

**Bloody Politics**

**Chapter 2**

**Many belated thanks to Devon99 for the beta work on this.**

**Also many thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, even from those who have diabled private messaging.**

**But to the lurkers out there, I have this to say:**

**It only takes a second to thank an author for all their hard work. And that's all you have to say.**

**And there's no point having a go at me and saying I'm 'being unreasonable,' or claiming this artistic crap about writing for myself, 'cos if you have the time to dictate all that stuff to me, AGAIN, then you obviously had the time to leave a review in the first place, right?**

**Choice is yours.**

**On with the show...**

Dean shouldered his way into the Emergency Room, yelling for help, Sam's scrawny, limp body cradled tightly in his arms, with the kid's head supported against his shoulder.

Several scrub clad strangers jumped into action, calling out instructions and pushing a gurney over to the brothers. But they needn't have bothered, because Dean met them halfway across the tiled floor, not prepared to wait even a second longer.

"Sir? Can you tell me what happened?" someone asked, but delayed shock was setting in, and Dean suddenly froze.

Sam's face was so pale it was almost translucent, making the redness of his own blood appear all the more terrifying.

Dean felt his eyes well up with tears when he noted the fresh surge of blood dripping from Sam's nose and ears. The kid hadn't stirred since he went to sleep in the car; in fact, he lay so still in Dean's arms, he could have still been asleep rather than deeply unconscious.

"Sir!" that voice again, now insistent and bordering on angry, snapped Dean out of it.

He nodded, distractedly.

"Uh… he fell asleep in the car and wouldn't wake up…" Dean blinked rapidly, trying to keep his shit together, because some gut level, big brother instinct was telling him that this was serious, and Sam was somehow in deep trouble. "I found some kind of bump on the back of his head… it was bleeding… that's when I noticed the blood coming from his nose and ears…"

While he was talking, Sam was pulled from his arms and loaded onto the waiting gurney. The medics got to work, wrapping the kid's left arm in a blood pressure cuff and securing an oxygen mask over his face. Someone began cutting Sam's blood stained tee-shirt off, and Dean felt an irrational urge to push them away and shield his brother's dignity from the eyes of strangers.

"You'll have to wait here," the voice said, more kindly this time. "But I'll be out soon as I can to fill you in."

Dean looked up from Sam's face and into the deep brown eyes of a young doctor with dark skin and a thin sheen of sweat beading across his brow.

"Th-thanks," he muttered, then added. "Look after him, ok? He's my little brother… a-and he _has_ to be ok."

The doctor's harried expression softened and he nodded at an elderly looking nurse, hovering nearby.

The gurney shot off down the hallway and disappeared behind a set of swinging doors.

"Just hold on, Sammy, ok?" Dean murmured, pathetically, hating how helpless Sam looked, and how there was absolutely nothing he could do for the poor kid.

He barely even noticed that he was being gently but firmly shepherded out of the hallway, and only really came to as he was pushed down onto an examination bench.

He looked around, confused, and realised he was inside a small cubicle.

"Here, honey," the nurse pushed a warm Styrofoam cup into his hands. "Drink some of this."

Dean blinked and sipped the brew, grimacing. It tasted like tea with about half a pound of sugar stirred in.

"Jesus!" he spluttered, almost gagging on the stuff. "You trying to send me into a diabetic coma or something?"

The nurse chuckled. "Or something," she smiled. "Sweet tea is great for shock. And boy, you sure needed it!"

"If you say so," said Dean, running his tongue around his gums and trying not to be sick. "Thought that was against the rules, letting patients drink or eat."

"You ain't a patient," said the nurse, arching an eyebrow. "Your brother on the other hand…"

"Yeah," Dean murmured, frowning. "Yeah, he's a patient, alright."

"Look," the nurse bent down to his eye level. "Do you want me to call someone for you? Only, you look kinda young to be dealing with all this by yourself."

"I'm twenty," said Dean, indignantly. "I'm old enough!"

The nurse smothered a smile, and nodded solemnly. "That you are, son, but I still think you shouldn't be here waiting this out alone."

Dean finally took a good look at her, close up.

The old girl had to be approaching retirement, maybe even beyond that. Perhaps she was already retired, but still came back to help out around the place on busy nights like this.

Either way, Dean was grateful. She seemed nice enough. Her dark brown skin wrinkled pleasantly around her mouth and kindly faded brown eyes, and the shocking red hair with dark roots, showing the first signs of needing a touch up, definitely ear marked her as the fun type.

She was attractive for her age, and Dean wasn't so full of young arrogance that he couldn't acknowledge she had probably been stunningly beautiful in her youth.

"Uh, my Dad, I can…" his eyes suddenly widened. "Dad! Oh sh… er…sugar! I gotta call my Dad, right now! Oh man, he's gonna kill me when I tell him what happened!"

"Alright, calm down," the nurse began, then stopped, frowning. "Child, why on earth would he blame you?"

Dean hung his head, ashamed, but began pulling his cell phone out of his jacket pocket.

"I'm supposed to watch out for Sammy," he mumbled, softly. "And I didn't even know he was hurt. He didn't tell me, but I should've known something was wrong…"

"Aw, honey," the nurse squeezed his shoulder. "Your daddy won't blame you. He'll be scared, sure, and he might even get angry, but he won't blame you for this. Head injuries are damn tricky things. It can take around thirty six hours for the symptoms to come out in the wash. Don't be so hard on yourself."

Dean sniffed miserably, nodded, but said nothing, just dialled his father's number.

This _was _his fault. He hadn't been keeping a close enough eye on Sammy during the hunt. If he had, he would have seen what happened, and known that his little brother was badly hurt.

Instead, father and older brother had ganged up on the kid, when he had to already be feeling shitty enough, without his family making him feel even shittier…

"_Dean? What's going on?" _John Winchester's gruff voice boomed down the line, suddenly.

Dean took a breath. "Uh… Sam's in the hospital, Dad…"

"_What?"_ John barked out.

"He fell asleep in the car," Dean repeated exactly what he'd told the doctor earlier. "And when we got to the bar, I couldn't wake him up."

He glanced up at the nurse and mouthed _'talk alone, please?'_

Dean watched as the nurse nodded, smiled softly, swept the cubicle curtains closed and left him in peace.

"_Dean? Talk to me! What the hell happened?" _John voiced with his usual impatience, but this time it was laced with worry.

Dean waited until her plump shadow had retreated well behind the screen before talking again.

"There was blood, Dad, coming from his ears and nose," he whispered, carefully watching for signs that someone was trying to listen in from outside the curtain. He couldn't be too careful with what he was about to say. "And I think he hit his head in the graveyard. Maybe that bastard Williamson got to Sam before we could torch his cowardly ass."

"_Shit!"_

"Yeah, you're pretty much on the same page as me."

"_Where are you now?"_

"In the ER," Dean strove to keep his voice from shaking. "The quacks are checking Sam over as we speak, and they haven't been out to tell me anything yet."

"_How bad is it? Any chance he's just gonna come round, and we can sneak him out?"_

Dean shook his head, a sick, tight feeling tugging at his gut once more.

"I don't think so, Dad. This is bad. He was still unconscious when they wheeled him away."

A deep, shaky sigh came down the line at Dean, and that surprised him. He was expecting anger, maybe even some shouting, but not the long, drawn out, scared noises his father was making, as though he too were trying to keep from freaking out.

"_Ok, son,"_ murmured John, suddenly, voice calm and soothing._ "Just sit tight, and I'll be there in twenty."_

Dean heard the click as his father hung up without another word, and settled in for a long wait, feeling, if not exactly better, certainly a little more at ease knowing his Dad was on his way.

_Dad will be here soon. Dad will fix this, make it right again._

* * *

><p>Once he'd filled out all the paperwork, including fake surname and insurance, Dean had insisted on going to the waiting room. He thanked his nurse – <em>Janice<em> – for the sickly sweet tea, and pushed out into a room so filled with people they were virtually hanging from the rafters.

"Dean!" John Winchester shoved his way through the crowds and grasped one of Dean's upper arms, pulling him aside by the reception desk. "Has anyone been out to see you yet?"

"No," Dean replied, shortly, and rattled off the fake details to keep his father in the know. All the while he was nervously glancing around, hoping to catch sight of the doctor from earlier.

John nodded along, face creased with concern.

But the tension was mounting each minute Dean was without his little brother, and it was starting to wear him down.

"Can't stand this damn waiting game. What the hell's taking them so long?"

"Yeah, I know, son," said John, eyeing the battle axe behind the counter and wondering what his chances were of charming her into sharing some information.

As though hearing his thoughts loud and clear, said battle axe immediately glanced up at him, glaring sternly over the top of her bifocals, and John had his answer.

"C'mon," he gently pulled Dean along with him. "Let's go grab some caffeine. Have a feeling we're gonna be in for a long night."

Two hours later, John was prising Dean's fingers from the coffee cup, and threatening to cut him off. Kid was so jacked up, pacing, running his hands through his hair, that John worried he was on the verge of some kind of psychotic break.

He stood in Dean's path and pushed him down into an empty seat, grateful that the ER waiting room seemed to slacking off as people were examined, admitted, or sent home and branded as time wasters.

"Dean, what's going on with you?" he asked, watching his oldest son with concern.

Dean looked up at his father through bloodshot eyes.

"What do you mean?" he said, anxiously. "What's up with _you? _You should be tearing me a new one by now! Sammy got hurt and I didn't even know!"

John stared at him in shock for a long moment, then sighed when he finally got it.

"Aw kid," he murmured, sadly. "For a start, you ain't the only one who didn't figure it out, ok? I was there too. I should have at least asked if he was ok after the hunt ended. It's one of the main rules of leadership: check your team for injury, even if they claim they're ok. I didn't do that, 'cos I was just too mad at Sam over the shotgun. This is down to me, son."

Dean just gaped at him in silence.

"And for another thing," John watched his face, a little amused by his son's rarely seen wide-eyed look. Last time Dean had used it was around twelve years ago, and that thought saddened John. "Sammy's not one to own up when he's sick or hurting. Kid's been good at hiding it since Truman High."

Dean sat up straight and eyed his father, suspiciously. "Sam doesn't know I told you about that kid, Dirk, right Dad? 'Cos if he ever found out I broke my promise…"

"I'll take it to my grave," John told him, reassuringly.

Back then, Dean had kept his promise successfully and carried on as though nothing had happened. But John had known something was up, and Sam was the biggest clue.

The kid changed after that stint at Truman High, became quietly confident in his abilities, took sparring sessions with his brother a little more seriously, but at the same time there was the barest hint that something was different about the kid.

Though he'd eventually badgered it all out of Dean, he was still none the wiser. John soon realised that Sam hadn't told even Dean everything about those few weeks, and that was strange right there in itself.

Sam still hated hunting and scowled deeply whenever it was time to move on, but he no longer complained like he used to. Until his recent bouts of clumsiness, he worked well alongside his family on each hunt, playing his part and getting the job done with little fuss or drama.

Truman High was two or more years ago, but to this day John hadn't been able to put his finger on what had really changed about his youngest.

It was almost as though Sam was _waiting _for something, biding his time, perhaps, for an opportunity of some sort.

"Dean, is it? Hi. Sorry it took so long."

Dean's ears pricked up when he heard the familiar voice of the ER doc from earlier.

John stood up, keeping one hand protectively on Dean's shoulder, and faced a young doctor in green scrubs, and a blood stained, scratched up stethoscope wound round his neck.

"Are you Sam's doctor?" he asked, not waiting for Dean to answer the guy.

The African-American nodded and studied John through narrowed eyes, assessing and watching.

"I take it you're his father?"

"That's me." John also nodded. "John Somersham, and this is my oldest boy, Dean, who you obviously know, and you're treating my youngest, Sam."

"Jim Walters," the doc answered, and some of the tension drained out of the air now that the two men had faced off. "If you'd both like to follow me."

"How is he, doc?" asked Dean, easing out from under John's hand and standing up. "Is he gonna be ok? Has he woken up yet?"

Walters, who had already hurried away, heading towards a dimly lit office with the door half open, stopped, turned, and looked him square in the eye.

"We need to talk," he said, quietly. His dark gaze shifted to John, and he held out a hand, gesturing towards the office. "Please, come and sit down."

Dean and John shared an anxious glance, and followed on.

_**TBC... if you really, really want, but you'll have to let me know...**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Bloody Politics**

**Chapter 3**

**I replied to as many reviews as I could then, after receiving some bad news about a family member, had a panic attack and realised I was running out of time and that I'd promised you all an update tonight.**

**So please forgive me if I didn't get around to you in the end. I was a little too stressed and, besides, I'm sure you'd all prefer a new chapter anyway.**

**On with the show...**

Once they were all seated in the tiny office, Walters wasted no more time.

"All our tests indicate that Sam suffered a linear skull fracture," he said, carefully, "brought on by trauma to the head. He's still unconscious, I'm afraid, and is likely to remain so for a few more days."

Dean looked as though he'd taken a blow to the gut because all the blood drained from his face, but he sat, quiet and stoic in his seat.

"Ok," said John, nodding slowly, keeping his cool. "So, what happens now, exactly? Will Sam need some kind of surgery for that?"

"I'm coming to that, Mr Somersham," said Walters, sympathetically, but he paused and glanced down at his hands, as though seeking guidance.

And that's when Dean knew.

That sick, pull inside, the feeling that something was badly wrong, took hold of him again.

"What aren't you telling us?" he demanded, fists clenched on the tops of his knees.

John shot him a look, frowning a silent _What's up, son?_

Dean ignored him and kept his eyes on Walters.

The doctor sucked on his bottom lip for a moment, and folded his arms.

"Has Sam complained of any headaches of late?" he asked, curiously. "Maybe nausea, fainting or visual disturbances? Perhaps he's been a little more clumsy than usual."

Now it was John's turn to experience the overwhelming, gut deep sensation that he'd missed something.

_Clumsy…_

"No, why?" he said, urgently leaning forward, and glaring up at the doctor. "What's wrong with Sam? Quit hedging and tell us!"

Walters sighed. "There have been… complications.

"What kind of complications?" asked Dean, fearfully, his knuckles now blanched white by stress.

"A product of a severe enough head injury is something called a subarachnoid haemorrhage, or cerebral aneurysm," Walters went on. "It's where a blood vessel has burst and leaked blood out over the surface of the brain."

"And… that's what's happened to Sam?" John carried on staring at the doctor, eyes stern and unblinking. "Is that what you're saying?"

"No," Walters met his gaze without a flinch. "I'm saying it _could_ have happened. From what we found, Sam already has a pre-existing aneurysm, a bulge in a blood vessel causing a weakened vessel wall. I'm guessing he's had it for some time now and, given the size of it, he probably experienced enough symptoms to at least guess that something was wrong."

John almost gulped and Dean looked like he was going to be sick.

Walters glanced from one 'Somersham' to another, making sure he had their complete attention.

"These things are usually fatal, and half of those who do survive it, walk away with some form of permanent brain damage," Walters nodded at them both. "Sam dodged a bullet tonight, but next time he might not be so lucky."

The room fell silent while the father and brother contemplated that.

Walters waited patiently for the questions he knew were coming.

Finally, Dean looked up at him, eyes red and watery.

"Uh, so… how did he get it? The weakened blood vessel, I mean."

"There are no clear cut answers to that," explained Walters. "Usually, it's found in people over the age of sixty five, smokers, drinkers, people with high blood pressure, but from what I've seen of your brother, he's as strong and healthy as an ox." He shrugged. "It's probably genetics, or just plain bad luck."

"What can we do for him?" asked John, obviously mulling it over. "Will he need more treatment?"

"That's kind of what I asked you here for," the doc pulled some papers out of his desk. "Our neurosurgeon has already assessed the risks, taking into account Sam's age and the size and proximity of the aneurysm, and he's satisfied that Sam fits the bill for preventative surgery. He'll also treat the fracture when he goes in."

Dean almost reeled back and his gut did a slow roll.

_Brain surgery? Shit!_

"I need you to sign these consent forms." Placing them in front of John, Walters tapped the sheets with a pen. "The neurosurgeon's getting ready to operate right now, in fact."

John didn't hesitate, just signed his false name on the dotted line and handed the papers back.

"What will it involve?" he asked, anxiously.

He didn't like the thought of Sam going under the knife like this, but if it had to happen then he wanted to know everything about it.

Walters was sympathetic. "I can give you a run down, but the surgeon will be able to explain in better detail."

Essentially, Dean thought later, it was pretty barbaric.

They were going to open up Sammy's brain, and insert something like a tiny clip around the aneurysm, effectively sealing it shut.

For the rest of his life, Sam would need regular monitoring; blood pressure checks, angiograms to check the size of the aneurysm, and some kind of scans to make sure the clip was still doing its job. And although he was young and healthy right now, Dean realised the kid would need a much healthier diet than the current Hunter's Cholesterol Trip they'd been living on for years.

No more shitty fast food, and bring on the salads.

Great.

* * *

><p>They were given just one minute each with Sam, one at a time, even though the kid was deeply unconscious and intubated. Given their fair share of hospital treatment over the years, the Winchesters could guess just how serious the situation really was from this gesture alone.<p>

Not many hospitals sanctioned a family visit right before major surgery.

Sam looked smaller and younger than his sixteen years, skin so cool and pale, and his was mouth almost blue around the vent.

Dean would have given anything to have Sam open his eyes, just for a second, so he'd know Big Brother was with him. But that wasn't happening, so he had to make do.

"I'm right here, Sammy," he whispered, gently cupping Sam's jaw. "And so's Dad. We'll never be far away. So, you just hang tough for us, huh, kiddo?"

He tenderly brushed a few stray locks of hair away from Sam's eyes, and noted that some kind soul had cleaned the blood from his ears and nose.

"You come back to me ya hear, bitch?" he half-laughed, half-sobbed. "I'll wait for you as long as it takes, but you come right on back to me. I'll even let you kick my ass, ya know? For being a crap brother and all?"

Checking around to make sure no one was watching, Dean pressed a firm kiss to Sam's scalp, trying desperately hard not to think about the surgeon's knife cutting into him there.

With a last whispered word of encouragement, Dean left the room, so John could have his turn.

Dean nodded and wiped his face, and his Dad patted him on the shoulder as he passed by.

John leaned over his youngest child, eyes a little moist and sad.

"God, Sammy," he said, voice low and husky. "How did we get to this, huh? How did things turn so bad, so quickly?"

John wanted to be angry with him, furious that Sam had kept a life threatening condition to himself, but knew that would be unfair to the poor kid. Relations within the Winchester family hadn't exactly been brimming over with happiness and congeniality of late. And besides, John already had a feeling about that.

"I'm betting you tried to tell us, huh?" he asked his silent boy. "Somewhere along the way, you tried. And I'm so sorry we didn't stop to listen, son. And I'm so Godammed sorry I yelled at you."

He sniffed and gently ran a hand down Sam's cheek.

"I love you, son. Love you so much. You and Dean… you're all that matters to me. I lose either one of you, and I don't think I could carry on."

Tracing a gentle pattern on the back of Sammy's hand, John let his tears fall.

"I've been so caught up in revenge, chasing shadows, and saving lives, and all the time I never knew we were so close…" he shuddered, almost choked on the words, didn't even want to say out loud just how close they'd come to losing Sam.

How close they still were.

* * *

><p>Dean watched John's face out the corner of his eye as they sat in the observation room, watching the preparations for Sam's treatment.<p>

The older Winchester had remained mostly calm and cool under pressure, but Dean could spot the worry in the slight tension along his shoulders, and in the way he rubbed his fingers together from time to time.

"Dad?"

"Uhuh?"

"They said the surgery is pretty risky."

John sighed. "I know, son. But think of the risks if he doesn't have it."

"I know, it's just…" Dean clenched his eyes shut, picturing a surgeon's scalpel slicing into Sam's head. "Maybe we should've let him make that decision."

John turned to his oldest son. "Even if he were awake, do you really think Sam would say no to it?"

Dean thought about it. "I guess not."

He grinned, suddenly.

"But he's gonna bitch like hell when he sees what they've done to his hair."

John laughed out loud.

"I don't care. I'll take Sam with shaved patches, a Mohican, or even bald as a coot," he said, glad to finally feel something other than sheer dread, if only just for a little while. "Just want both my boys back in one piece."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"And in Sammy's case, there's gonna be an extra few pieces."

John shook his head, still grinning.

"Just make sure he don't walk through any metal detectors from now on."

The levity worked well.

It kept them positive, to think of Sam in the future, living his life as he was meant to.

"Hey Dad?" said Dean, all serious now.

"Yeah!"

"I suppose Williamson finally did something useful, huh?"

John looked round at him again, an eyebrow quirked up.

"How's that, now?"

Dean smiled grimly.

"If it hadn't been for him, we might never have known... until it was too late," he swallowed convulsively, because the idea of maybe thanking a violent pervert made him feel sick. "I mean, this was a wakeup call for us. Sam could have gone at any time, and without any warning. But whatever Williamson did to Sam in that graveyard? It led us here and bought us more time. Bought _Sam_ more time."

John wasn't sure what to say to that, but he supposed Dean was right. Even if it did stick in his claw a little.

He stared at his youngest son through the glass, clasped his hands together and silently prayed that Sam would pull through.

* * *

><p>The surgery had been a lot less messy than Dean was expecting. But then, he'd been on hunts where the victims had been found squashed, impaled, dismembered or outright eaten, so anything else was neat and tidy in the Winchester book.<p>

That's not to say he didn't wince when the surgeon cut into Sam's head.

And that's also not to say that he didn't bawl his fucking eyes out when Sam convulsed on the table, and the defib paddles were whipped out. According to the conversation he heard over the speakers, Sam hadn't flatlined as such, but it had been a close call.

Irregular heart rhythms could have spelled the death of Dean Winchester, right then.

He'd paced up and down the observation room, eyes never leaving his little brother, not even for a second throughout the entire surgery.

"I swear to God, I'll swing for the little bastard if he quits on me now!" he muttered, distractedly, stopped, turned, and pressed a hand flat up against the window.

John came to stand behind him, a solid, silent, but reassuring presence.

Dean felt a large, warm hand rest on the back of his neck, gently rubbing and squeezing, and understood.

_He won't quit on us, son._

**_TBC... and there's more... you hope!_**

**_Again, please ignore discrepancies in medical facts. _**

**_I have most, if not all, written in permanent marker on sharp pieces of glass. _**

**_If you bring them up I will hunt you down and shove each and every fact very slowly , but firmly, up where the sun very definitely does not shine._**

**_I will make squeal like you've never squealed before._**

**_Be told!_**

**_Love you all!_**

**_ST xxx_**


	4. Chapter 4

**Bloody Politics**

**Chapter 4**

**Sorry not to answer your reviews again, been yet another busy day so far.**

**Thank you all so much for your support, and your wonderful reviews.**

**Onwards...**

_That's Weird._

He heard voices and a strange echoing bleeping noise, all sounding like they were coming from under a lake.

Wherever they actually _were _coming from, it was far too early to be getting up, especially since he could swear he had only just gone to bed.

No, better to stay here and let the world carry on without him for a while longer.

Sam lay still and relaxed, enjoying the unusually firm bed with warm, clean sheets and blankets.

But, eventually, _gradually_, other issues crept in, spoiling his morning in bed, as he roused reluctantly, groggy and disorientated.

Issues like the smell. Strong, disinfectant wafted up his nose, curling the delicate, sensitive hairs and tickling the back of his throat.

_Too much hyper chlorite in the bleach, _he wanted to call out.

But that became the least of his worries, because the tickling sensation in the back of his throat turned out to be something far more frightening.

_Jesus, what the hell is that?_

He gagged and choked on it, fists drumming weakly against the bed in panic, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to realise there was some kind of hard plastic wedged in his mouth.

_Someone help me, please!_

Sam tried to lift his arms, wanted rip that thing out, but strong, gentle hands trapped his wrists and pinned them to the bed, while another hand gently caressed his hair.

Someone nearby was murmuring softly to him, but Sam was finding it hard to pay attention.

_Let me go, let me go!_

Whimpering, and groaning in his panic, he finally pulled his eyes open and stared up into the familiar, anxious faces of his father and brother.

"Calm down, kiddo. Just take it easy before you hurt yourself," his brother was telling him. "It's a breathing tube, ok? So don't fight it, Sammy, and it'll breathe _for_ you. It'll come out soon enough."

Sam whimpered again and tried to shake his head, tried to convey that he couldn't do it, he couldn't stop panicking because he couldn't breathe…

"Just relax, little bro," Dean perched on the edge of the bed and carried on stroking Sam's head, leaning in so his forehead was just a hair's breadth from touching Sam's. "You can do it. Try not to breathe, and let the machine take over. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you."

It was hard to give up something you'd been doing your entire life, something that you literally couldn't live without, only to entrust the function to an inanimate object.

Except Dean wasn't asking him to trust the machine, not really.

He was asking Sam to trust his big brother.

Sam immediately stopped fighting, and felt the oxygen gently forced into his lungs without having to do a thing.

Dean very briefly glanced across the bed at John, who was still holding Sam's wrists down, and nodded.

"He's back with us," Dean grinned at Sam and ruffled his hair.

But it was the guarded way in which he did it that had Sam wondering.

There was no rough, brotherly, playful affection in his touch; it was gentle, tender… as though he was scared shitless of hurting Sam.

Sam questioned him with his eyes, but Dean shook his head.

"Plenty of time to explain later," he said, smile dimming a little. "But first we gotta get your doc to check you over. Make sure everything's ok."

Sam frowned, but John caught his attention.

"You've been real sick, kid," he murmured, dark eyes watching Sam carefully, checking to make sure he wasn't going to fade out on him. "Had us worried to hell and back, so you take it easy. We'll fill you in later, I promise. Doc's on his way."

Sam stared at him for a moment, then blinked his assent. He was tired, and hadn't been ready to wake up in the first place.

Now he got to have that morning in bed. Praise be to God.

Except, the whole concept of the morning lie-in was permanently ruined, now, because it just _wasn't _the same, knowing that you were in hospital, probably for some life threatening injury or illness, with a machine doing all your breathing for you - like some lazy teenager who just doesn't like to work at _any_thing - and worried family members that refused to take their eyes off you, even for a second.

And that made things feel downright awkward.

Sam had plenty of questions to ask, but couldn't say a damn word.

His father and brother, on the other hand, had plenty of means, motive and opportunity to speak but were, frustratingly, keeping quieter than a politician in a whorehouse: unwilling to give the game away in case they revealed something they shouldn't.

So, not only could he cut the atmosphere with a knife, Sam was fairly sure he could have used an ice cream scoop, stuck it on top of Mount Rushmore and carved it into another presidential face.

_If_ he could get out of bed or, God willing, _move_ even just a little.

He eyed his family with mounting irritation.

Dean nervously scratched the back of his neck.

John fiddled with Sam's blankets.

But a full five minutes went by before either of them said a word or even blinked.

Sam knew that because he'd kept one eye on the clock above the door.

Which, thankfully, swung open precisely thirty two seconds later to admit a young African-American guy in green scrubs, and a worn looking stethoscope around his neck.

Yep. Sam had him pegged as his doctor the moment the door opened.

No way was this guy a nurse. It was the archetypal reassuring smile that said 'Trust me. Your life, such as it is, is in my hands, and I promise you they only shake when I'm under stress' that gave it away, along with the heavy, dark shadows under even darker eyes which suggested the last time he slept was sometime after the Reagan administration.

Poor guy had probably been studying and working his way through medical school ever since.

_At least he got the chance to go._

_That's more than I'll ever have._

Sam wanted to sigh but didn't dare risk it, in case he accidentally crushed his breathing tube or something equally stupid. He didn't know how these things worked, but he wasn't about to try and find out.

"So you're awake at last," the guy grinned suddenly, shattering that consolatory, patronising smile and revealing a set of dazzling white teeth most Hollywood A listers would happily bludgeon him to death for. "Good to meet you at last, Sam. I'm Dr Walters, but you can call me Jim."

The cheery doctor crossed over to the bed, and laid a warm hand on Sam's wrist by way of introduction, but Sam could feel the guy's fingers pressing against his pulse.

"Wait a minute," said John, looking puzzled. "I thought the neurosurgeon was coming to talk to us."

Dean's hand in Sam's hair stopped its soothing movements and tensed up.

Sam didn't look at him, but knew what he'd find if he did. Dean's eyebrows would be half-mast, in an almost 'what the hell?' kind of frown, his green eyes glinting with mistrust.

Walters nodded. "Dr Geoffrey's was called away for another emergency, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me," he grinned at John, then winked at Sam. "I actually assisted him with your surgery, and he's filled me in on everything else you need to know. So, relax. It's cool."

The hand in Sam's hair resumed the gentle motion and it was with some surprise that Sam also felt himself relax a little. Unconsciously, he'd tensed right along with Dean for a moment there, but if his big brother was now happy and at ease, under the circumstances, then so was Sam.

"Now, I'm guessing you want that tube out, right?" Walters asked, kind, friendly eyes regarding Sam sympathetically.

Sam blinked hard and tried to nod, nearly choking himself in the process.

"Easy there, Sam," said the Doc, holding Sam's chin still with a firm, gentle hand. "Time to extubate, ok?"

Sam blinked again, and followed the doctor's instructions.

It hurt like hell and felt disgusting, that tube being pulled from his throat like a pissed off, writhing viper being wrenched from its nest. But by God it felt good to be free of the damn thing.

Sam resisted the urge to glare at it, content to see it ditched in a clinical waste container instead.

Walter's slammed the lid down hard, as though he too understood the finality of the moment.

Free at last, Sam turned his head, eyes filling with tears when they landed on his brother.

"Dean…" he croaked, painfully.

While the doctor secured a nasal cannula to Sam's face, Dean smiled encouragingly and poured out a glass of water from a jug on the nightstand.

"Hey, little brother," he said, softly, and offered up the glass. "Want some water?"

Sam nodded, wearily.

Dean cupped a hand under Sam's neck, gently tilted his head, and allowed the kid to sip sparingly at the water. Watching him like a hawk, the older brother took care to wipe Sam's chin when a few drops rebelled and rolled out of his mouth.

Kid was obviously exhausted. And why wouldn't he be? It was only ten o'clock in the morning, and he'd already had a damned long day.

John stared at his sons, watching the brotherly tenderness with an unreadable look on his face.

Sam sensed his father's deep, penetrating gaze, and his eyes flickered up to meet it.

To his amazement, John's face softened into an almost-there smile, and he winked.

_You're ok, son. Nothing to be scared of._

Sam wasn't sure what to think of that, but he nodded slightly anyhow.

Walters clapped a hand on John's shoulder.

"I want to check him over but that can wait five minutes," he said, and backed away from the small family. "I'll be right outside if you need me, but don't take too long, now. Sam needs his rest."

"Thank you, Dr Walters," said John, gratefully.

It had already been previously agreed with the doctor that John and Dean would fill Sam in on everything. No doubt the kid would still question the good doctor himself, once his throat was feeling better, and he would manage it more thoroughly than the Spanish Inquisition.

But right now, for once, John was going to act less like a drill sergeant and more like a parent. He was going to break the news as gently as he could because if John was still feeling shaken and scared shitless by all this, then there was no telling how it would hit Sam.

"Dad?" a thin, tired voice whispered up from the bed.

John sat on the other side from Dean and leaned forward, tenderly brushing Sam's hair back over his ears.

"Son, I need to ask you something, and I want the truth," he said, softly. When Sam's eyes widened, he quickly added "I promise I won't be mad. You've done nothing wrong, kiddo. I just need to know…"

_Need to know just how badly I screwed up._

Sam stared at him and nodded, carefully. "Ok."

John exhaled slowly. "When did the headaches and dizzy spells start, Sam?" he asked, watching his son's face closely.

Sam's mouth dropped open. "What?" he rasped out, his voice hoarse and deep. "How did you know?"

"The doc told us," said Dean, carefully, anxious not to upset his brother. "And Dad's right, Sam. This ain't your fault. We should've realised something was wrong."

If anything, poor Sam looked even more shocked, and certainly very confused.

"How long?" John asked again, patiently.

"Uh… well, a few weeks, I guess," said Sam, lowering his gaze in shame. "I'm sorry. I tried to tell you, but..." he sighed and sniffed, miserably.

"Hey, hey!" John ducked his head to meet Sam's eyes again. "It's me that should be apologising to you for not listening."

"And me," said Dean, frowning. "I should've been keeping a better eye on you."

"I'm not a child," Sam replied, with a small petulant pout, the kind that would normally drive John and Dean crazy.

Now it just made them so damn grateful the kid was still _around_ to pout at them.

"But you are _my_ child," said John, firmly. "And it's my…" he glanced at Dean. "_Our_ job to keep you safe."

"But," Sam swallowed hard around a sudden lump in his sore, swollen throat. "What was it? What made me sick?" He glanced around the hospital room. "And how did I end up here?"

It worried him, the way his father and brother suddenly exchanged a scared looking glance.

"Sammy, you have an aneurysm," his father informed him, as gently as he could.

Sam's pale face seemed to whiten even further. "Wha…?"

Dean had privately speculated that the kid already knew what an aneurysm was, and needed no explanations. Sam had recently taken some advanced kind of biological science classes, and no doubt memorised everything he'd been taught.

"It's been there for some time, apparently," John continued, still stroking Sam's hair. "But it was getting bigger and that's why it started causing you problems. Dizziness, headaches…" he paused, then added, guiltily "the general clumsiness?"

Sam's eyes filled with fresh tears. "I knew it could be something serious, but I just… I just…"

"Shhh, it's alright, son," John's fingers brushed against the thick, wide gauze that covered the surgical wound on Sam's head, and his heart seemed to clench tightly within his chest. "It doesn't matter now."

"But what happened?" Sam asked, eyes straying to his brother. "Did it leak, or something?"

Dean huffed and shook his head. "No. Oh God, no, Sammy. Nothing like that."

"Then what?" Sam begged. "Please? Last thing I remember was a graveyard, but even that's a little fuzzy."

He had to know. Like a scab on a wound, he couldn't stop picking at it.

Dean understood that well enough.

"It was a simple salt and burn, but we think you must've hit your head, fracturing your skull," he drew in a breath and let it out, slowly. However, it didn't stop the almost-sob, nor did it stopper the flood of guilt. "Didn't find out until later, when we got to the bar and I couldn't wake you up. You'd passed out in the car and I didn't know… I'm so sorry, Sammy…"

"Dean, don't, ok?" Sam murmured, squeezing his brother's hand. "You couldn't have known…"

"…I got you to the hospital, and they ran some tests," Dean carried on, as though Sam hadn't spoken. "They told us you were carrying this thing in your head that could burst at any time and kill you. So they took you for emergency surgery to fix it."

"Clips?" Sam queried, suddenly sounding clinically interested in his own aneurysm, and it creeped Dean out just a little. "They put clips around that area of the blood vessel to protect it, right? To take the pressure off?"

John raised an eyebrow, suddenly amused by his youngest son's in depth knowledge of brain surgery.

"That's right," but he knew what was coming.

He didn't have to wait long, because Scientist Sam was suddenly gone, and in his place was a horror-struck, sixteen year old boy, who clutched at the bandage round his head.

"My hair!" he wailed. Suspicious sounding snorts had him shooting Dean and John some accusing looks. "You let them shave my friggin' _hair?_"

"Had no choice, kiddo," said John, trying not to laugh. "It was necessary to save your life. But they didn't shave it all off. Just a small patch, which was lucky for you considering you got a fractured skull to boot."

"But it's my _hair!_" Sam scowled at his father. "You've been wanting to cut my hair for years. So, what? You thought you'd try getting it a piece at a time?"

"Now, you know that's not true," John's lips twitched, and his laughter was imminent in the face of Sam's ire.

"Huh!" Sam huffed, annoyed and knowing he was behaving like a brat, and totally not caring. "Should be grateful you didn't just cut it all off when I was out of it!"

John couldn't help smirking by now. "Sam…"

"S'gonna be all uneven and patchy," Sam groused away, even more annoyed that his dad was laughing at him. "I'm gonna look like a dork!"

"C'mon, Sammy, you _always_ look like a dork. A bald patch ain't gonna change that," Dean rubbed Sam's arm, chuckling at the kid's full on pouting, bitchface. "It'll grow back… eventually."

"You're really loving this, aren't you?" Sam growled, eyebrows now forming a deep V.

As though someone had flipped a switch, Dean's face fell.

"No," he said quietly, all teasing gone. "I'm not loving this. I'm not loving the fact that I almost lost my kid brother, and if a few months of bad hair means that you're still here, then I can live with that."

He stared at Sam, eyes sad and serious.

"Dude, I didn't mean…" Sam began after a heartbeat, but Dean cut him off.

"I know you didn't," he said. "Just… don't say things like that, ok? I can't handle it."

"Ok," Sam replied in a small, ashamed voice.

Dean moved his hands up to rest on either side of Sam's neck, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Which Sam had always understood as Big Brother sign language for _love you, bitch._

And it was never any clearer to him than it was right then.

"Look, Sam, I want you to tell me if you're getting sick, or feeling dizzy, or not seeing straight, ok?" Dean suddenly demanded, anxiously. "You shout and yell at me if you have to, Sammy, but the minute you think or feel like something's wrong, then we need to know right away so we can get you some help. Promise me?"

Sam gazed at Dean, eyes wide and clear. "I promise," he whispered.

"Good boy," Dean whispered back and briefly touched his forehead to Sam's.

"We'd best get your doctor back in here, before he throws us out," said John, quietly. "But, Sam?"

"Uhuh?" Sam looked across at his father, wondering at the strange note in the guy's voice.

John was frowning, eyes filled with remorse.

"You boys both mean the world to me," he said. "I don't say it, but you should know that it's true. Always."

Then he was getting up and walking to the door, pulling it open and calling out to Dr Walters, leaving Sam and Dean staring in shock, mouths gaping pathetically wide like gold fish at feeding time.

_**TBC... more brotherly/fatherly schmoop in the final installment, if you fancy it...**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Bloody Politics**

**Epilogue**

_**Six months later…**_

"Dean, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure… _get off me! _I can stand just fine on my own!"

"Such a prude, Sammy."

"Shut up, Dean!"

"Boys, knock it off!"

"Sorry Sir!"

"Sorry Dad!"

"Seriously though, dude," said Dean, eyeing Sam worriedly. "You promised you'd tell me, right?"

Sam sighed and crouched down by the broken shards of glass.

"_Seriously_, I'm ok," he said, carefully picking up the larger pieces and disposing of them in the motel room trash can. "It was a genuine accident, and nothing to worry about. In fact, if _someone_" he glared accusingly at his brother, "hadn't left the damn water glass there in the first place, _then_ I wouldn't have knocked it off the table!"

"Yeah," answered Dean, nodding but still looking worried. "But why didn't you _see_ the glass? Are you getting double vision again?"

"I didn't _see _it, because," Sam sighed again, and pointed to a large pile of library books sitting on the floor nearby. "I was carrying _them_."

Dean stared at the books, critically assessing the height, and cautiously agreed. The pile was large enough to have obstructed Sam's view of the table and, ergo, the water glass.

Still…

"Well, you're due a check up in any case, so make sure you mention it to the doc when we go back and see him." Dean snapped his fingers. "Never mind. _I'll_ mention it."

"Dean…"

"Button it, Sammy."

"It's _Sam, _jerk!"

"Don't care what you call it, just button it bitch!"

John grinned from behind a large textbook on Japanese hauntings, and then shut the book with a loud snap. Grin smothered behind a stern, professional veneer, he glared at his sons.

"Right. Let's go. New hunt coming up, and you boys better quit your girly squabbling and get with the program. Like, now!"

"Yes Sir!" Sam and Dean replied in unison, grabbed up their weapons, and turned to file out of the motel room.

But John gently caught Sam's arm before he could leave.

"Are you sure, son?" he asked, keeping his voice down so Dean wouldn't hear and start on Sam again. "If you're not up to this, or you don't feel ready, we can pass this on to Bobby and Caleb…"

Sam appeared to hesitate, a strange look on his face, and it would take John another couple of years, and a son lost to higher education, before he realised what that was all about.

"I'm ok, Dad," Sam finally replied, a little sadly. "It's been six months and I'm better now. I can do this."

Sam needed to prove to his family that he _was_ getting better, and to prove to himself that he could still have a shot at normal, in spite of that freaky thing in his head. Hunting wasn't his calling, but somehow he was along for the ride whether he liked it or not.

Besides, it was only for another year or so.

Sam had others items on his own, personal agenda, and at least one of those items involved college.

One way or another.

And no damned aneurysm was going to stop him.

_**The End.**_

_**A/N: Hope you all enjoyed that little trinket. Nothing much, and rather AU, and the medical facts were more bent than a nine quid note, but it was fun to write.**_

_**Cheers to everyone who took the time to review.**_

_**Again, been a stressful day, so I posted the epilogue rather than replied to your reviews, but I will reply to them all on this last one, I promise.**_

_**With much love,**_

_**ST xxx.**_


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